Next Exit
by we were here
Summary: The Shepard siblings go on a road trip to Chicago. Some language and underage substance abuse, rating may change to M.
1. Curly - The Call

Disclaimer- S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

Author's note- This is written in second person alternating point-of-view, i.e., each chapter, the narration switches between Curly and Tim Shepard. It's rated M for language and underage substance abuse. The events take place pre-book.

* * *

June, 1965

"_When I lost you, honey, sometimes I think I lost my guts too  
and I wish God would send me a word, send me something I'm afraid to lose."_

- Bruce Springsteen,_ '_Drive All Night'

_Curly - The Call_

Death is a disease.

It is everywhere, contagious, like cancer spreading through your body or bird shit on the sidewalk. Unavoidable. One glance, an open wound, the misunderstanding of a word, and you're infected. When your earliest memories are of blood and the sound of screaming, you expect it - death - to be there constantly, hiding around the corner or at the bottom of the stairs.

But when it isn't there, you fear it, knowing what it could take away from you, but not how, or where, or when, or even why. (That's the question most people ask - _why?_ - although it's the one you understand the most, because there's a hell of a difference between what you can survive with and what you can't survive without. At least, that's what your brother says, anyway.)

Dying has been a part of your life for so long you've just learned to accept it, like your hair that's always a little unkempt and your nose that's not straight and your height, two inches shorter than what you'd like it to be. You can _control _it, almost - you know where the gun is in the house, what liquor stores don't check cards, how many packs of cigarettes you'll need to smoke to get emphysema.

There's just a _before_, and then an _after_, but the part everyone forgets about is _during_: When the one thing you've spent so much of your night running from is no more than a glance, an open wound, the misunderstanding of a word.

xxx

The morning you're supposed to leave for Chicago, Tim is pacing the den back and forth in his stocking-feet. (You don't care if he's nervous, long as he doesn't lay a hand on you when you're on the road. It's his damn fault if he doesn't want to go - _he's_ the one who offered to drive you and Angela in the first place, after you told him you'd just take a train there.)

"A _train_?" he'd said, his nose crinkling in disgust, in the way that makes you think of gnats swarming around an animal carcass. "Don't you know what the hell kinds of things _happen_ on trains?"

No, you told him, you didn't.

So that's how you ended up sitting on the couch at six o'clock, waiting for your sister to come downstairs. In front of you, the road map is spread out on the coffee table, a blur of city names, state lines, and highways. And, if you lean in a bit closer, you can see the tiny words Tim wrote in the margin, barely eligible but there nonetheless - _Allen Wednesday 12 _- and you swallow down the lump that's formed in your throat.

Allen, your mother's brother, had been estranged until last night when your aunt Cathy called long-distance from Illinois to tell her that he'd gone and bellied up like a fish in their living room chair. Heart attack.

(The other four hours you'd spent awake are all a blur: Tim writing down the address of the funeral home, hanging up the phone and blinking once, then twice, as if to clear something from his eyes; you, always ignorant, thinking he was going to swear, punch you in the arm too hard, and feeling disappointed when he didn't do either of those things, just pulled his hands through his hair, said, "Well, shit. I guess you're gonna have to borrow one of my shirts," and walked down the hallway to tell your mom what'd happened; and finally, the scream that followed behind her closed door, so loud you couldn't hear yourself breathe.)

"Angela," he says now, having lost his patience an hour ago when he woke you up, "get the hell down here!"

"Hold on a minute!" you hear her yell back. There's a _thud_, and you turn your head just in time to see her struggling to carry her suitcase down the stairs. You get up to help, meeting her halfway. Tim's face is turning purple, and you'd laugh if your stomach didn't hurt so much and this situation wasn't so goddamned awful.

"Damn, Angie," he swears, "we ain't goin' on a five-star vacation. What the hell you got in there, a dead body?"

Your sister gasps, and you almost drop the suitcase and let it roll down the last few steps.

"_Tim!"_ she shrieks, and you roll your eyes at her. (Like your mom, in her drug-induced state, three rooms away with her bedroom door shut tight and locked actually _heard _what he just said, let alone realizes how ironic it was.)

The look he gives her shuts her up quick, and it reminds you that funerals always bring the worst out in people - at least, that's what you've heard - but you and him both know it's too early for either one of you to be acting like such an asshole. After what happened at The Dingo, with that girl from Brumley getting shot, you don't need your brother going off on you anymore than he already does.

(The shooting happened in May, almost a whole month ago, but he's been on edge since, nervous about letting you or Angela out of his sight for more than a few hours. His whole protective-brother act is starting to wear on you. He needs control in his life, stability, and with Allen's death and your mom's sudden reclusion - depression? - back into her room, all within twelve hours each other, he's one remark away from losing it.)

You stop at the front door, watching as he shoves his feet into his shoes. Today his eyes are pure black and there are bags underneath them, deep-shadowed and purple, like bruises - _like he didn't sleep at all_, you think - and the space between your shoulder blades starts aching. You want to tell him that this isn't his fault; none of it is, really, although you can't help wondering why the fuck he's gone to all this trouble if he can't do anything about it.

Just as you're about to open your mouth, he looks up and finds you staring at him.

"God," he says, "stop fucking standing there and _let's go_, Curly."

Somehow, your sister was smart enough to grab the map and sneak out, but you weren't, and now there's a ringing in your ears, like they're full of cotton balls. You nod in response because that is what he expects and that is what you are supposed to do.

Outside, the sun is starting to break over the trees, casting everything in an off-white glow. The air inside Tim's car is stuffy, and as he backs out onto the street you dig your fingernails into your palms, willing the nausea away.

xxx

One of your earliest memories is of three boys standing over you, their shadows large from the looming sun behind them, so bright it made the weapon in the oldest boy's hand - a tire iron - seem almost as if it wasn't dangerous, a child's toy, until he raised it high above his head and then brought it down. His face was carrot-red, the color of his hair, and all you could think was that he had very crooked teeth when he smiled at you and that you were very alone.

When the rod crashed into your skull, splitting it open, the pain was sudden and blinding. Disorienting. Your vision went black, your knees buckled and your breath caught in your throat, the taste of blood in your mouth bitter as you gagged on it. You remember the sky swimming above you, and how the asphalt felt burning-hot under your cheek as you collapsed after what seemed like falling for a long time. Each kick to your stomach was duller, somehow, than the throbbing inside your head.

You were barely conscious when your brother and his friends found you an hour later. _Curly,_ he'd said, in that same voice he used with your sister, _can you hear me?_ and you'd opened your mouth, trying to say something, _anything,_ but your tongue was in the way and the only noise that came out was a groan. You didn't know it then, but something in his eyes had changed - hardened - that day when he knelt and your blood stained his hands red, bound him to you.

But you were lucky. (That was the word the doctor had said in the hospital to your parents_, lucky,_ with Tim outside in the hallway, chewing on a fingernail, a toddler-size Angela hanging on the arm of the chair he was sitting in.)

Later, you'd asked him what it meant, when you were in the safe dark of your own bedroom, supposed to be asleep. _Tim,_ you'd whispered, and he shifted next to you.

_What? _

His voice was thick, full of exhaustion; it had to have been at least three in the morning.

_What'd the doctor mean when he said I was lucky? Did I almost die?_

There was a pregnant pause, long enough for you to think he'd fallen back asleep._ I dunno, _he finally replied, and told you to go back to sleep. For a while, you almost believed him: That he didn't know, either.

That's the problem with denial, though. It builds and builds and builds upon itself, until there is nothing left besides dark nights and cold metal and cigarette smoke in your face and the knowledge that there's so much more than just distance separating you from where you are and where you're supposed to be.

xxx

The first stop you make is fifteen minutes outside Lebanon, at a Dairy Dream just off the highway. You've only been on the road for a little more than three hours, but your legs are cramped and your neck is stiff from having fallen asleep with your head leaning against the window.

Obviously, the place is deserted - who the hell would want a cheeseburger at nine in the morning? - so you head straight for the booth in the back corner. Angela follows you, a lost sheep in the field while Farmer Tim goes and places your orders. You don't realize you're starving until he comes over a few minutes later with three Cokes and a bag full of grease.

The burger tastes delicious, numbing the throb in your stomach. After you're done eating and the trash is thrown out, Tim unfolds the map on the table. It's wrinkled all over from having sat in his back pocket, the ink smeared, but the route he outlined in red marker last night is still visible.

"We can stop next in St. Louis," he says, "and then I was thinkin' we could stay the night someplace in Illinois."

At this, Angela opens her mouth to say God-knows-what, and you give her shin a soft kick under the table. There's no point in arguing with him over some petty bullshit, anyways; if it was up to you, you'd drive all day and night until you arrived in Chicago, but like everything else in your world it's not and you're too anxious (or tired?) to fight.

When you push open the door to leave, you notice the heat: It is sudden and everywhere and heavily wet, smothering, nothing like how Tulsa summers are - all prairie fires and dry air and dead grass. A thin layer of moisture hangs over the empty parking lot, making the asphalt shine.

Once you reach the car, Tim tosses you the keys.

"Your turn," he says, opening the passenger-side door and sliding in. It takes you a second to realize what he just said, and when you do, you have to bend over to pick up his keys because they fell to the ground. You've been outside for less than five minutes and you're already fucking sweating, some beads slipping into your eyes, burning them, and you suddenly wish you hadn't thrown your drink out.

"What?" you say.

"Your turn to drive, Curly," he repeats, like he's talking to a child. Behind his sunglasses he's probably rolling his eyes and your cheeks warm. You know that you're supposed to agree with him, say, "Yeah, sure, I got it" but for some reason you can't.

(That's what comes out: "I can't.")

Now you've pissed him off. Way to go, Curly.

"What the hell do you mean you can't?"

Angela leans forward from the backseat, gum-snapping away. You hope it's not so she can listen to Tim bitch you out again but instead to inspect her cleavage in the rearview.

The words slip out before you can stop them. "'Cause I don't have my license yet."

Your sixteenth birthday isn't for another three months, in September, and although you've driven (stolen) cars since you were fourteen, you don't feel right about driving Tim's partly because it's _his_, one of the only personal items he (rarely, if ever) shares with you and your sister, and because you'd be sitting so fucking close to him for hours.

"Shit, Curly," he groans, "you'll be sixteen in three months -"

"I know."

"- so why is it so important?"

"Yeah, Curl," Angela pipes up, and you want to sock her, "you didn't say nothin' 'bout it before."

"I don't know," you mumble, instantly feeling stupid for even bringing the topic up. Sighing, Tim motions for you to get in beside him.

Luckily, you've got a couple of inches on your brother (something you should be grateful for) so your head grazes the ceiling; you have to squish your legs against the pedals and bend over to start the engine, except when you do it doesn't do its part - _start._ Instead it sputters its way to a slow, loud death, and you about die from embarrassment right there, in a truck stop parking lot off Interstate 44.

_Fuck,_ you think, just as Tim says it aloud. Funny, how things work.

He gets out and leans into the open window to add, "Goddamn it. Just sit here, don't fuckin' touch nothin'," before slamming the door and storming across the lot and into the gas station next to the Dairy Dream. With nothing else to do, you flick out the lighter on the dashboard and light up your last Marlboro. You're a couple drags in when Angela asks if she can have a puff, too.

"What did you just say?"

She leans closer, her hair brushing your shoulder, and pouts. You can smell her perfume, a sweet, flowery scent that your mom used to wear when she went on dates with your father, and underneath that, the slightest trace of… nicotine?

"Gimme a drag, Curl."

"Since when do you smoke?"

"Ain't any of your fuckin' business, Charlie."

She only calls you Charlie when she wants something that Tim won't let her have, and it's fucking annoying. You exhale a cloud of smoke, flick a couple ashes out the open window, and scowl at her in the rearview. "Last time I checked, yeah it_ is_, Angie."

She sighs, crosses her arms over her chest. "If you wanna know so goddamn bad, fine, Sylvia -"

"Winston's Sylvia?"

"- yeah, dork, what other Sylvia do we know? Anyway, she let me try one a couple of weeks ago, said it'd take the edge off things." She picks up her purse from the floor and rummages through it, then (triumphantly?) pulls out one of Tim's old lighters and shows you the edge of a box of Parliaments.

"See? Look." She grins. "C'mon, Curly. Please?"

You can't believe it. She's only thirteen months younger than you, still your little sister, and you want to both laugh at her and shake her until she knows how much fucking trouble she'd get into if Tim ever found out.

"Fine, just once," you warn, trying your best to sound tough, and she squeals. You take one last drag, holding the smoke in deep, before passing it to her. She's careful to take only one puff, two tops, before giving it back to so you can snuff it out in the ash tray. A few more minutes pass and Tim's still nowhere to be found, still inside that gas station, and you hope he didn't kill anyone because he's so pissed off.

You're about to get out and look for him yourself when he materializes from the building with a balding man - Earl, he says his name is - and a cord of cables to jumpstart the car.

Earl props the car's hood up and gets to work while Tim stands off to the side, his hands on his hips. "Happens all the time," he explains to your brother, attaching one wire to the Charger's battery. "Good thing y'all parked so close." He hooks his thumb back to the truck parked in the space in front of yours, a dented Chevy. "Mind if you go an' prop her hood up, son?"

"Yes, sir," he says. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and you feel a swift and deep pity for this Earl guy, who doesn't know what happens when someone calls your brother _son_, let alone _Timothy_. Last time Winston did it, Tim slashed his tires and broke a rib.

When everything's set up, Earl lets the truck run for a couple of minutes before telling you to turn the key again and ease on the gas. Miraculously, the engine starts, and you swear you've never heard a sweeter sound in your entire life. Then Earl disconnects the cables, he and your brother shake hands, and Tim gets back inside the car.

"Let's get the hell out of here," he snaps, and you swallow down the bile that's slowly making its way up your throat, inch by inch. For the first time since leaving Tulsa, you want to thank him - for what, you're not completely sure - but you don't.

Then again, you never do.


	2. Tim - The Excuse

_Tim - The Excuse_

Really, you don't know what came over you when you told him he could drive.

It was a bad fucking idea, that's for sure. He's got his hands in the ten-and-two position, a speckle of mustard on his collar, and one of his shoelaces is untied.

In front of you, there's nothing but an empty strip of highway, no other cars seen for miles, and the accelerator should at least be above eighty but it's not and for the third time (more like the fourth) that morning, you regret not letting them take the train. Because if they had, you wouldn't be in this mess right now, wondering how much bleach it's going to take to remove that hideous stain from _your fucking T-shirt _(which he just _happened_ to think was his when he picked it up off the bedroom floor, for fuck's sake).

God.

You rub your temples. Your head's starting to pound, and you need a drink; the cheeseburger you ate was too greasy and now it's sitting at the bottom of your stomach, waiting for the appropriate time to come back up. It makes you sick just thinking about when_ that's_ going to happen, but it's not like you haven't had a hangover before.

Last night was a complete blur of cigarette smoke and whiskey-fire in your throat. All you can recall is the most nonessential things, like how the phone felt too heavy in your hand as you hung it up and the way your brother looked at you when you turned to face him, not with pity but with something else, something darker… sadder. Worse.

_What happened?_

The kitchen light was too bright, and you'd closed your eyes. _Uncle Al had a heart attack. The funeral's on Wednesday, at noon. _Even as you said this, the words sounded thick coming out of your mouth, wrong.

What happened… that was what your mother said, too, when you came in and woke her up. You couldn't breathe as you told her, and twelve hours later you're still not sure if you can. There's a weight sitting in the middle of your chest, shoving itself against your lungs and your ribcage and your heart, wanting out, out, out.

You roll down the window, waiting for some air to blow in, but nothing does; it's just clumps of goddamn dirt. Next to you, Curly twitches, and you sigh. Jesus Christ, you really need a fucking –

"Tim?"

Curly?

No, the pitch was too high. Angela.

You turn your head, the seatbelt digging into your hips. "Yeah, kid."

"How much longer do we have till we stop?"

"Another hour or two, but the way Curl's drivin' it might take all day."

From your periphery, you see the corners of his mouth curve up, barely, then him biting down on his lip, trying to salvage what's left of his pride.

"Fuck off," he says, but there's no emotion in it. You're safe, for now; whatever happened back at the Dairy Dream – or didn't – is gone, hiding beneath the suitcases in the trunk. It'll come out later, of course, as it always does in the dark, when he is too close to you and you are simultaneously too far away from him. Maybe, just maybe, Angela will let you sleep in her bed...

"Fuck you, too." To her, you say, "Think you can drive better than him?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"Damn right." You smirk at her. With so much open road ahead, you tell Curly to pull over to the shoulder. As long as he's practicing his driving skills (or lack thereof), why not let Angela practice hers?

Fifteen minutes later, you find out why.

"Shit!" your brother swears as his head slams, again, into the back of your seat. Dumbass isn't wearing his seatbelt, and if the red welt in the middle of his forehead is any indication, each time Angela comes to an erratic stop he's thrown forward from the momentum.

"God, Angie," he says, glaring at her in the rearview. "Don't you know how to drive in a straight line?"

"So what if I don't?" she responds. "Least I don't follow Tim around like he's a goddamn saint."

(The pressure you've felt all day has burrowed itself behind your eyes, locked your jaw in place, tightened your skin over your muscles and made it look white. Soon, it will find its way inside of your lungs, and will stop your heart from beating, and you will die just like your uncle did, desperate and depressed and alone.)

Her lips are moving too fast for you to read them, apologizing, and Curly isn't taking any of it. Oddly, his face is expressionless, and it reminds you of the day your father left, how he'd been trying so hard not to cry that his skin had turned purple, the same shade the bruise on your sister's cheek would be a few days later.

Then, out of nowhere, there is the noise of sirens behind you, a sea of red and blue lights, and all too well you know what happens next.

You're fucked.

xxx

You don't remember finding him, or bringing him home, or even the visit to the hospital, all antiseptic and metal and too much hairspray.

Just the blood, so much of it, on your hands and your T-shirt and your jeans, a pool of red at your feet. If you hadn't gotten there on time, the doctors said he could have bled out. That's the nicer way of saying_, He could have died._

Sometimes, you stare at the back of his head, trying to find the crooked scar underneath all that hair. You wonder what it felt like, and how much it hurt; how, when you found him, you were sure it was already a memory, or a dream. But mostly, you wonder what he was thinking of, and pray that it wasn't you.

xxx

The cop has a handlebar mustache and a gut from pulling late-night shifts at all those lonely bars after work. As he raps his pudgy fingers on the window, _tap tap tap,_ Angela turns, panicked, to look at you, a deer caught in the headlights.

You put a finger to your mouth, signaling her to not say a word, and motion for her to roll down the window.

Up close, the cop looks older than you first thought. There are wrinkles around his eyes, grays in his hair, and he has a double chin – whether that's from the restricting shirt collar or just plain laziness, you're not sure and definitely not about to find out. You've become so good at getting your way out of situations like this it's a damn shame you can't make a career out of it.

You clear your throat and force yourself to sound polite. "Afternoon."

"Mind telling me what we got here, son?"

"Just reckon I'd let my sister practice her driving, sir."

"Off the interstate?"

"You see," you tell him, leaning over Angela, "she ain't all that good" – from the backseat, Curly snorts – "and I thought it'd be best if I took her out somewhere… desolate… before she gets her license."

"This highway gets a lot of use during daylight hours." He pulls out his flashlight and shines the beam in her eyes, then yours, checking for dilated pupils or nervous blinking. Confident with what he sees, he puts it back in his pocket and eases into conversation. "Y'all ain't from around here, are you?"

"No, sir. Tulsa."

He nods. "Got some family down there. What're you doing out east?"

"Goin' to Chicago for a funeral."

"Hmm." His eyes float over yours and to the backseat, fixating on Angela's purse. Curious, you look, too, and immediately wish you hadn't. "Whose are those?"

The contents have spilled onto the floor, all mascara and lipstick tubes and wadded up pieces of gum and crumpled bills – normal stuff. And then, peering around Curly's shoe is one of your old lighters, one you thought you'd tossed away, and, _of all fucking things_, a box of Parliaments.

Dear God.

You don't know what to think, how to explain. Anger, slow and deep, fills your vision with red, seeps into your veins. You curl your fingers into your palms to stop them from shaking because you know if you don't you'll hit her, you'll fucking snap.

"Whose are those?" the cop asks again.

"Mine," you lie. Your voice is thick with emotion, too sharp, so you try again. "I don't know how they got in there. Must've fallen off the dash earlier or somethin'." You pat it for emphasis and give him an honest-to-God smile.

He stares at you for a second too long, as if he's able to see right through your shitty excuse but doesn't want to push any further, then glances back to his car because you've made him feel uncomfortable. He's tired and sweaty and wants to go back to the station, where the air conditioner isn't on the fritz like it is in his house and no one will judge him if he eats another donut for lunch instead of the leftovers his wife carefully packed for him that morning.

"Alright," he says, nodding. "Have a nice day." And just like that, he's gone, back into his cruiser and pulling ahead of you. Once he's out of sight, you close your eyes and breathe in through your nose slowly, wondering if the entire day was just some sick, twisted nightmare, that he'd never been there, but those cigarettes and the black make-up smudges on your sister's cheeks just prove it's not your imagination at all.

When you open them, Angela has her hands folded in her lap. Twenty seconds out, and she's crying. "Tim," she starts, and her voice cracks. "I –"

You shake your head, disgusted, and she wipes away a tear that's rolled down her cheek. The anger has spread to your stomach, made it bottomless. (At first you thought you'd only feel that – rage – but more than that, you're disappointed in her, in your brother, in yourself.)

"Get in the back, Angela."

She does, and a few minutes later you're driving again, although this time the seat beside you is empty. For once, you're not surprised that either of them won't look at you as the miles stretch and the speedometer inches toward a comfortable seventy. Your chest hurts, knowing that she used to do that, too – idolize you. But everyone has to grow up sometime, right?

xxx

St. Louis is boring, indescribable. At the gas station, as you fill up, Curly heads inside for a soda while Angela leans against the side of the car, her arms crossed over her chest, staring at the ground as if it's the most fascinating thing she's ever seen.

The whole way here, you'd found a way to block it out – those cigarettes and that cop – and now, with her only a few feet away, it's almost too much to ignore. It's causing a knot in the back of your neck and the vision of your uncle's body in his recliner, and you want it gone, you need it gone. Because you need to know that she's not fucking her life up like you did; that she isn't you, and will never_ be_ you, that instead she will die old and happy and gray and not like how you will, under a streetlight or in a dark alley, completely and utterly alone. Because that is how you came into the world, and that is how you will leave it.

You lean back on your heels, remind yourself to sound normal and not like a cold-blooded serial killer. "What the hell happened back there, Angie?"

A muscle in her jaw jumps. She's not used to you being affectionate – really, you can't remember the last time you'd given her a hug – but the tension in her body loosens at the gentle tone in your voice. Her arms go slack against her sides, and her mouth twists into a frown.

"I don't know," she rushes out, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, Tim, I just…"

"Just what?" You move closer; nudge her arm with yours. "Come on, Ang. Look at me."

But she doesn't, she won't. Why the fuck won't she look at you?

"Angela." Her name sounds loud in your ears, aggravated. "At least talk to me, please."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"You won't understand."

"Well, I won't if you don't tell me. I'm not _mad _at you –"

"Then what?" she interrupts, cutting you off. "What the hell _are _you, Tim?"

This time you don't care if your voice is rising, or that the person in the next car over is staring at you, wide-eyed. There's a numbing sensation in your fingertips, the way you get before a fight, and you flex them as you close the distance between you and her. One hit, one move, and she's gone.

"Jesus, Angela," you snicker, "stop being so dramatic."

"I don't want to fuckin'_ talk_ about it, okay?"

Her back is pressed up against the car, a dirty rat cornered in a lab cage – there is nowhere else for her to go. You lift her chin up so she will look at you and you will see in her eyes that somehow, she hasn't changed, hasn't become cold like you did so many years ago.

"What the hell did you just say?"

She swallows loudly, her throat muscles quivering. "N-n-nothing," she stutters.

"That's what I thought. Don't you ever talk to me like that again, got it? _Got it?"_ You release your grip and take a step back, satisfied as she rubs the corner of her bottom lip. (_Don't worry_, you say to her in your head, _it won't bruise_. You may be a lot of things, but you're not your father.)

"And throw those goddamn cigarettes out, too," you add. "Makes me fuckin' sick just thinkin' about them."


	3. Curly - The Reunion

_Curly - The Reunion_

You arrive in Illinois shortly after midnight. The motel you're staying at is a shithole of a place, which you guess is better than sleeping in the car as you help your brother unload the last of the bags from the trunk. Angela scampered inside the minute he unlocked the door, citing a headache as to why she couldn't carry her suitcase fifty feet to the room.

Just as you're about to step over the curb, Tim calls you back.

You turn around. "What?"

Under the dim parking-lot lights, he looks tired. His shoulders are slumped, and you have to remind yourself that he's only nineteen and not eighty-five. "Did you know about that? The cigarettes?" he says.

You lick your lips, biding for time. "Yeah. She told me today."

"Fuck." He pulls out a box of Marlboros and lights one. The red-orange tip glows in the dark, casting half his face in shadow. "Would've happened eventually, right?"

You look down at the pavement; toe a piece of gravel with your shoe. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Fuck," he repeats, louder this time. He holds out his cigarette to you, and you take it, the familiar smell comforting you somewhat. You can't recall the last time you had a real, honest-to-God conversation with him, one that wasn't burdened with drugs or girls or the gang, and it's making you anxious. Being with him like this, so close yet so far apart.

"What're you gonna do?" you finally ask him.

"Burn her goddamn fingers off."

"Really?"

He rolls his eyes. "No, shithead, I'm gonna fuckin' douse her in gasoline and light her on fire. What the hell do you think I'm gonna do?" Shaking his head, he turns away from you and starts across the parking lot, toward the motel and whatever is beyond it. "I'm heading in. You coming, or are you gonna sleep outside like an animal?"

The streetlight above flickers, momentarily leaving you in a patch of darkness. "Gimme a minute," you say.

Once the door closes behind him, you bend over and dry-heave into the weeds growing between the cracks in the sidewalk. After you're done, you sit down on the curb and close your eyes, forcing air into your mouth, trying to remember how you got here.

xxx

"Curly. Wake up."

"Mmmph."

"I'm not kidding."

Someone shakes you shoulder, hard – Tim? – then presses their knee against your spine. "Get the hell up, kid."

You open your eyes to a ceiling with a watermark the size of your head, temporarily forgetting where you are. The room is cold and dark, the floor littered with all of your belongings. It takes you a second to notice Angela, who's sitting in the lone chair by the window, the shades drawn over it, running a comb through her damp hair. Tim is leaning against the door, an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Might wanna get in the shower soon, before the warm water runs out."

You rub the sleep out of your eyes. "What time is it?"

"Seven."

With nothing else to do, you slide out of the bed and fumble around in your suitcase for a clean set of clothes. There's a towel waiting for you in the bathroom, folded neatly into a square on the counter, and as you turn the shower on you try not to think about what happened at the gas station last night.

You were standing at the register, waiting to pay for your soda, when Tim walked in, murderous. He'd sidled up next to you, his hands shaking as he gripped your jacket sleeve, as if you were the only thing keeping him upright. His mouth had bumped into your ear. "Remember when Dad left?"

You'd nodded, not sure where he was going with this. The cashier motioned you forward, his eyes not meeting yours as you'd slid a dollar bill across the counter.

"I was gonna kill him for hitting Angie," he'd continued, his tone making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "But she deserved it. Payback's a fucking bitch, Curly." And then he'd punched you in the arm a little too hard (not that he'd admit it, of course) and left, not bothering to wait for you to collect your change. The rest of the car ride to Springfield, you'd thought about those four words, _payback's a fucking bitch_, trying to decipher it, understand what it had to do, exactly, with you.

Although you stay in the shower for as long as possible, when you're done you still feel dirty, like you didn't use enough soap. You get ready hastily, barely tasting the toothpaste as you brush your teeth and then the candy bar (breakfast of champions) your brother gives you on the way out.

The sun's rising. It's getting into your eyes. You blink, but you can't make it go away.

xxx

Angela leans forward. Her T-shirt slips off her shoulder, revealing a black bra strap. Her mouth barely moves as she says, "I'm gonna wait here."

Tim doesn't answer, doesn't look at either of you. The house you pulled up to a few minutes ago – your aunt Cathy's – is white, with green shutters and a wide front porch. A chair by the front door is slightly off-center, as if someone had just been sitting there but went back inside. You wonder if that was where your uncle Allen would have his after-dinner cigar, or if it is like that because Cathy couldn't bother to move it.

Your brother yanks the keys from the ignition and gets out. You follow him across the recently-mowed lawn, careful to stay a few feet behind in case he turns and sucker punches you. The drive from Springfield to Chicago took five hours instead of three, and he's fucking livid. As he pounds his fist on the screen door, the noise ricochets off the quiet street and into your ears – _bang, bang, bang _– like gunshots.

There is a _thump _from the other side, as if something heavy has just fell to the floor, and the door opens. Cathy is smaller than you remembered, frail-looking – she has a clasp of pearls around her neck, and fidgets with them nervously. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish's, and you suddenly wonder if it was a bad idea, coming to a funeral for an uncle you only met twice.

"Did your mother send you?" she finally asks.

Tim speaks for the both of you. "No," he answers. "We came on our own."

Cathy puckers her lips, gestures behind herself with a wrinkly hand. "Come in, please."

The foyer is cramped with furniture, the air stale-tasting in your mouth. She ushers you into the living room, where it is slightly brighter and less cluttered. She perches on the puke-colored ottoman, folding her hands in her lap. You and Tim manage to squeeze onto the couch across from her, though it's tight – you can feel his leg moving up and down as he jiggles it. Detective Shepard, Assessing the Crime Scene. What a fucking joke.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks twelve times. Cathy tries to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. "You've both grown so much. Is your sister…?"

"She's here," you say. Your eyes wander to the window and what is waiting for you outside. Angela is still sitting in the car where you'd left her, her head down, probably looking for something in her purse. From this distance, it looks like she's praying. You snort – your sister's as religious as a pine cone, and even if God introduced Himself to her, she wouldn't know who the fuck he was.

Your aunt swallows. She chooses her next words carefully: "Honestly, I'm not sure what to say to the both of you. I'm surprised you're here. Allen… he didn't enjoy talking much about his family. It was troubling just to call."

"That's too bad," your brother muses. "He's all she had."

"Unfortunately," she says, standing. Her chin is wobbling; her eyes are wide and glazed over, like she suddenly might burst into tears. You wish she wouldn't. "Pardon me, I forgot my manners. Would you boys like anything to drink?"

"Water's fine." As she walks out of the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, he coughs. He's uncomfortable, his body rigid as stone against yours. When you look at him, his eyes say, _go check on Ang_. His closed mouth says, _stay here_.

But you can only do one.

xxx

"_C'mon, try it."_

"_No!"_

_Lydia shoves the lighter away from her face. Tim groans, throwing himself back against the couch. _

_It's the summer before you turn ten, the summer after your dad split town and dumped all the bills on the doorstep, and your cousin, Lydia (who is two months older than Tim and proudly likes to flaunt it), is prissy and girly and mysophobic. For the past three days she's been at your house (sadly, she's staying another four), she's done nothing but eat all the popsicles in the freezer and boss Angela around, and you hate it._

_The morning she arrived, she'd complained about the "icky" tap water from the sink after Tim said it wasn't filtered. Then, you'd found her in Angela's bedroom, giving her a "much needed" makeover, evident by the tweezers on the floor and the lipstick cap your poor sister was sucking on. Tim had actually tried _befriending _the chick, which in your book was mistake numero uno. Now, you're silently suffering in the basement, all because he decided to listen to your mother for once._

"_Fine," he says. Unsatisfied with her reaction, he grabs the joint from Lydia's fingers and lights up. Usually, he's careful about smoking or drinking (or doing whatever it is he does when he's not at school) around you, but this time he doesn't bother to open a window or go upstairs and outside. You watch him from where you lay on the floor, half-asleep, both mesmerized and slightly nauseated by the pot's skunk smell. _

_Blue smoke circles around his head as he exhales. Lydia coughs dramatically. "Can't we do something _fun_?" she whines._

_Tim rolls his eyes at her. "Like what?" _

"_Go out. Isn't there, like, a strip or something?"_

_You sit up, instantly awake. "The Ribbon?"_

_An hour later, you're walking down the middle of it. Lydia's stupid mouth is open and her eyes keep moving from one side of the street to the other, as if she can't believe what's she's seeing… And if you were her, you suddenly wouldn't want to, either. _

_There's been some type of accident; up ahead, the next block, you see two police cars and an ambulance. Blood is on the ground, red and shiny – pools of it – and the overpowering scent of gasoline burns your nose. Off in the distance, over the roaring of sirens, you hear someone screaming. It's not until Tim has pulled you aside, into a dark alleyway and told you to put your head between your knees, that you realize it's you. _

xxx

Ten minutes later, you're finally able to coax your sister out of the car. She doesn't accept the glass of iced tea Cathy sets in front of her at the kitchen table, instead nibbling on an oatmeal-raisin cookie Tim shoves at her. It's Monday afternoon, which means the funeral is a day from now. Your brother graciously reiterates this fact.

"You have a casket?" he asks Cathy. He's leaning against the counter, his hands tapping against his thighs impatiently. The scar on the left side of his face that runs from his temple to his jaw – the result of Wicker missing his neck – is clearly visible in the daylight. It's slightly pink and puffy and each time you look at it, your stomach squeezes itself into a ball.

"We…" she starts, then clears her throat. She tries again, "He wanted to be cremated."

"What about Lydia?"

"Lydia?" you say at the sound of your cousin's name, and immediately wish you hadn't. "The one that plucked Angie's eyebrows?"

"She did _what?"_ Angela blurts out, covering her eyebrows with her hands in horror, just as Tim says, "Who the hell else do you think I'm talking about, Curly?"

Cathy closes her eyes. Her lids are pale, translucent, and her face looks washed-out, as if this conversation is wearing her down, bit by bit. "She's coming at three."

Tim speaks around the bite of cookie in his mouth. "Does she know?"

"Yes, of course, Timothy. She doesn't live under a damned rock. He was her _father,_ for God's sake."

For the next few minutes, there's only the awkward sound of chewing and swallowing and ice cubes rattling in glasses. Your aunt excuses herself to the bathroom, the legs of her chair scraping harshly against the linoleum floor. In her absence, your brother takes her seat.

He hands his wallet to you. "Go outside for awhile." It's not a question. To Angela, he orders, "You better start talking."

Grateful for any excuse to escape your brother's wrath, you head down the hallway and push open the screen door, for the first time welcoming the sticky heat on your skin. You hadn't noticed it earlier, but the neighborhood your aunt lives in is so much nicer than your own. Each house has a garage and a fence and actual green _grass_, not shitty clumps of dirt, in the front yard. All that's missing is a big, dumb golden retriever and a snot-nosed kid running after it.

Because you're definitely not hotwiring Tim's car and driving it anywhere, you follow the sound of traffic until it leads you to an intersection. Across the road, in a mostly vacant strip mall, are cheap stores, places you woudn't normally look twice at – take-out restaurants and dry-cleaning services and a liquor store. And then, standing there at the corner of 107th Street and Western Avenue, it abruptly hits you like a slap in the face: You have Tim's wallet – which means you have money and, more importantly, his ID.

When you step inside the liquor store, slightly out of breath and heat-depleted, the welcoming breeze from the air-conditioning unit in the corner raises goose bumps on your arms. Lucky for you, you've been in enough places like these in Tulsa that you know where the managers keep the good stuff – in the back. Trying not to draw too much attention from a homeless man down the aisle, you grab the most inconspicuous bottle you can find – Smirnoff, which isn't your favorite but will have to do for right now, until you can come back another time – and trudge over to the checkout.

The cashier is old and smells like a mixture of patchouli and rum. His tie-dye T-shirt pulls across his beer gut as he scratches his chest. Gross. "You got a card, kid?"

"Obviously," you respond in a flippant tone, lowering your voice an octave so it sounds like your brother's – deep and irritated. As the man squints at it, you make sure to keep your expression flat and your eyes distant to convey boredom, even though on the inside, you're squealing with joy like a pig rolling around a muddy pen.

"When's your birthday?" he asks.

"November ninth."

"What year?"

Shit. You bite down on the inside of your lip – you can never remember the exact date. "Forty-seven," you guess. It must've been the right answer, because he gives the card back with a grunt and punches a few buttons into the register.

On your way out, you smile to yourself, pleased with the vodka in your hands and the crisp bills in your pocket. This, you realize, is what you've been waiting for. This is Chicago. This is it.


End file.
